HUNTER: A Thriller (A Dylan Hunter Thriller)

by Robert Bidinotto

  He raised the SuperVision scope and studied the guy again. Six-three, skinny, baggy low-slung jeans, hooded sports jersey. Furtive eyes, darting around like a rat’s. If the bastard had gone to prison, he wouldn’t have been free to participate with an accomplice in that drive-by gang shooting five years ago.

  The night when one of his stray bullets took the life of George Banacek’s boy, Tommy.

  Now, the legal system’s revolving door had spun again, dumping Cardenas and Orlando Ramirez Navarro—his partner that fatal night—back onto the streets. An advocacy group appealed the manslaughter convictions of Cardenas and Navarro on grounds that the lead detective was “prejudiced,” based on a record of past ethnic slurs against Mexican-Americans. The detective’s testimony had been critical in getting the convictions. Now, the pair was free once more, pending a new trial.

  He took a last long look at Cardenas. Then tucked the scope into a deep inner pocket of the raincoat.

  He was more than ready.

  *

  Just before nine, he checked his watch again. This is when they’d quit the past two nights. He glanced outside and, sure enough, they were headed his way.

  He crouched in the corner shadows and drew the Glock 17—the one he’d used to kill Valenti—then put on the same suppressor, the SVR.

  They were babbling excitedly in Spanish when they entered the stairwell below him. He heard their scuffing footsteps as they started up the stairs. One of them made an obscene comment about some puta; the other hooted, his laughter echoing sharply off the concrete walls.

  Deep breath. Out slow.

  The street lights outside cast a bobbing shadow across the floor before him as one of the men reached the top of the stairs. It was Maldonado. Cardenas, still out of sight on the stairs, was complaining about the weight of his haul. Maldenado laughed and hoisted his duffle bag repeatedly overhead, making like a weightlifter.

  He rose smoothly from his crouch. Then, just as he brought the Glock around to sight on where Cardenas would appear, Maldonado spun to face his companion.

  And saw him.

  “Ese!” the man yelled.

  He moved the gun back toward Maldonado at the same time that the guy heaved the duffle bag at him. He fired blindly and tried to jump aside, but the heavy bag caught his legs, knocking him to his knees.

  Maldonado was yanking his own pistol from under his jersey. In response, he launched himself from his knees into a side roll against the wall and came up with the Glock while Maldonado fired. The blast was deafening and stinging chips of concrete from the wall above him sprayed his back and legs. He squeezed his trigger three times, fast. He couldn’t even hear his own suppressed shots through the ringing in his ears, but saw them hit—thigh-chest-face. The Mexican bucked with each impact. He collapsed, and his gun hand, in spasms, unleashed another thunderous shot that sparked off the floor and ricocheted off into the night.

  Plan B.

  He heard Cardenas screaming in the stairwell. He pushed himself to his feet and flattened against the wall, watching the floor at the top of the stairs for the murderer’s shadow to appear.

  Instead, he heard a fading rush of footsteps.

  He’s running.

  He spun around the wall and ran to the top of the stairs. The guy was almost to the ground floor entrance, struggling awkwardly to get free of the cross-body strap of the duffle bag. He snapped off a shot at him, but it careened off the wire-mesh screens. Cardenas dumped the bag and ran outside. He hurtled down the stairs after him.

  When he emerged it took a moment to spot his target. Cardenas had rounded the structure and tried to cross the highway. Blocked by the metal fence barrier running down the median strip, he turned and ran back into the parking lot.

  He raced after the guy. Cardenas glanced back over his shoulder at him in terror, trying to zig-zag among the remaining parked cars and small islands of decorative trees scattered throughout the lot.

  Ahead in the distance he saw a flashing yellow light at the far end of the mall. The security car. Cardenas was headed toward it.

  This had to end fast, or end badly.

  His panicked quarry was winded and slowing. He wasn’t. He cut a direct route toward the security car, gaining rapidly. As he closed, Cardenas reached another patch of trees and half-turned to look behind him. Then his low-slung jeans caught his heel. He stumbled.

  Fatal fashion faux pas.

  He dropped to one knee and from a distance of about thirty yards fired once, center-mass. The suppressed shot wasn’t loud at all. But the Fiocchi 9mm round knocked Cardenas right off his feet.

  He trotted up to him. The guy lay on his back across a patch of grass under a small tree. His eyes were wide with shock and his lips sucked for air, like a fish in a bowl of dirty water. He didn’t have enough breath even to moan. Blood poured from the hole in the belly of his Baltimore Orioles jersey. Cardenas would be gone in another couple of minutes.

  But he didn’t have a couple of minutes to wait around.

  He leaned over him. Looked into his rat’s eyes.

  “For Tommy Banacek,” he said quietly.

  He pointed the end of the silencer at the middle “o” in “Orioles” and pulled the trigger.

  Tomas Ernesto Cardenas stopped sucking air.

  *

  Unscrewing the silencer, he looked around. Incredibly, he could spot nobody looking his way.

  Plan C. Leave the body here with the slug in it. They’ll do a ballistics match with the one from Valenti and figure out who did it. And why.

  Good. But not good enough.

  Maybe you can still pull it off. All of it.

  Back to Plan A.

  He stowed the gun and suppressor in the raincoat as he walked, not ran, back to his car. It was a late-model Crown Vic with a whip antenna, rigged to look like an unmarked police car.

  He got in and drove it over to the body, backing it in. He popped the trunk and went back there. Pulling up the carpeting, he clicked the hidden latch. The lid of the false bottom flipped up alongside the spare tire.

  He glanced up again. The security car was drifting his way along the storefronts, getting closer.

  He pulled out a body bag from the hidden compartment. Crouching under the tree, he spread it open beside the body. Flipped it inside. Zipped it up fast.

  Remaining in a crouch, he waited until the security car moved behind a couple of vehicles that blocked a direct line of sight. He seized the body bag, then in one fluid motion powered by his thighs, hoisted it, spun, and dumped it into the deep well inside. He worked it into position so that the lid would close. Then noticed bloodstains on his gloves and raincoat. He ripped them off and stuffed them down there, too, along with the Glock, holster, and silencer.

  He closed the hidden inner lid and smoothed the carpet over it.

  He reached up to close the trunk and the high beams hit him.

  *

  He glanced casually toward the security car, squinting against the headlights as it rolled up. Two silhouettes inside. One held the shape of a walkie-talkie to his mouth.

  He waited. Kept his hands out at his sides, where they could see them.

  Both guys got out at the same time and approached, staying apart. They were young, as most security guards tend to be, still in their twenties. Also armed. Looked like Glocks on their hips. The kid to his right had a hand resting on the butt of his.

  He smiled at them. “You fellas are a little late. Sure coulda used your help a few minutes ago.” He motioned his thumb toward the car. “Had a flat.”

  The two shot glances at each other. The one on the left, a fit-looking blond kid, said, “We saw you putting something in your trunk.”

  He nodded. “Yep. Just finished up.”

  They looked uncertain. “You mind if we asked for some identification?”

  He forced himself to grin. “Hell no, ’course not. Left my wallet in the glove compartment. Mind if I fetch it for you?”

  They were edgy. The ki
d on the right, dark hair, played it well. “I’d actually prefer if you let me get it, sir. If you don’t mind, that is.”

  Keep the grin. “Hey, sure. Be my guest. It’s unlocked.”

  He watched the dark-haired guard circle the long way, behind the car, so that he could take a glance inside the open trunk as he passed. He hoped that the kid wouldn’t look the other way, at the ground behind the car, and spot all that blood.

  After a moment, the guard emerged from the passenger side with the wallet in hand. Hustled back to them, this time around the front of the car.

  “I’m really sorry to have troubled you, sir,” the kid said, looking anxious. He handed over the wallet, opened to reveal the gold badge so that his partner could see it, too. “You should have said something, Detective Talionis.”

  He laughed. “Nah, no trouble at all, fellas. Just wanted to play along and see how you performed. And you know what? You guys are really on your game. We don’t see enough of this kind of professionalism with private security. I’ll have to write a letter to your boss, tell him how impressed I am.”

  “Well, thank you, sir. We try to keep an eye on things, but it’s tough covering all these lots. We get more than our share of trouble around here. As you know.”

  Right then, they heard the first siren.

  He laughed. “As I know too well. Well, I better find out what the hell that is all about.”

  “Yes sir,” said the blond guard. “Stay safe.”

  “You too,” he replied. He walked back and slammed the trunk lid. “As for me, I’ve had all the action I need tonight, right here.”

  They laughed with him again as he got into the car and drove away.

  COLLEGE PARK, MARYLAND

  Thursday, October 23, 8:25 a.m.

  Maurice Juliette pulled off Route 1 and into the parking lot of the run-down office building. Normally he didn’t arrive at work until nine, but he needed to get a jump on the day. The grant proposal would take hours, and he had a lot of other stuff to do, besides.

  Juliette grabbed his worn leather briefcase and brown tweed jacket from the back seat of his old Volvo. The door squeaked loudly when he closed it. He had to bang it twice before it stayed shut. Piece of junk. He wished he could afford better. But you don’t get rich working in a nonprofit. Not even if you’re an attorney. Not even if you’re the executive director.

  Staring at the faded beige finish of the heap, he felt familiar pangs of resentment. He thought about how well so many of his classmates from Georgetown U Law Center were doing these days. Most had taken “Curriculum A” and gone into commercial and corporate law. Where the big bucks were. They’d all sold out. They lined their pockets helping the rich get richer by exploiting the underprivileged.

  Not him, though. He was an idealist. He’d gone the “B” route, busted his ass learning from some of the foremost scholars in Critical Legal Studies. And he wound up here, running Class Justice Legal Services.

  The breeze was chilly. He put down the briefcase to slip into the jacket.

  Yeah, they had lots of money and material things and trophy wives, sure. But legal services had other compensations. Emotional rewards. Moral rewards they would never know. You get to help so many of this rotten society’s victims. People who never have a chance in life. Poor, disadvantaged people and minorities who get screwed by the system—by the same corporations his old fraternity pals now protect.

  He thought of all the prisoners that Class Justice Legal Services represented pro bono. Victims of racism and injustice at the hands of the power structure. Treated like society’s refuse and warehoused out of sight. And what were their real crimes, anyway? Being poor or the wrong color or nationality in white, patriarchal, capitalist Amerika.

  Okay, so maybe he wasn’t rich. But being the champion of social victims earned you prestige. Street cred out in the community and in the media, but lots of respect on the Hill, too, where the progressives got it. Like the call he’d gotten returned yesterday from Congressman Horowitz’s office. The chief of staff said Horowitz would be delighted to lend his name as a reference for his grant proposal to the MacLean Family Foundation.

  And ultimately, connections like that brought in whatever money CJLS really needed. Sometimes federal money, but mostly foundation cash. Now, planning next year’s budget, they really needed the MacLean money. The administrator there promised to fast-track his grant proposal if he submitted it by Friday. That was tomorrow. Where the hell did the week go?

  He picked up his briefcase and headed for the entrance. Saw his approaching reflection as he reached the glass entrance. To himself, he looked skinny and kinky-haired and nerdy. Sheila told him he looked like a young Alan Dershowitz. Yeah, wish I had his bank balance.

  He pulled out his key and was surprised to find the door already unlocked. He knew nobody else would have arrived this early. Goddamned cleaning crew. They always forgot something. Anybody could walk right in.

  When he opened the door, he caught a faint, unpleasant smell. Great. Not only do they leave the place wide open, they don’t even clean it right. First thing, he’d call their super and chew him out. What are we paying them for?

  He thought of stopping first at the kitchen and putting on some coffee, but he needed to get to that proposal. He crossed the small, shabby reception area to the hallway and headed back toward his office. The smell got worse with every step. Jesus, did the toilet overflow or something?

  He pushed open his office door and stopped, startled.

  He immediately recognized the client’s face. Tomas Cardenas. Sitting in his chair, behind his desk, nice as you please. Staring back at him arrogantly, holding an open newspaper spread across his chest.

  “What the hell?”

  But Cardenas was staring slightly to his left. And not reacting.

  Then his skin crawled as he realized from the frozen, sleepy expression that the guy was dead.

  And he knew what the smell was.

  The briefcase fell from his nerveless fingers. His knees went wobbly and his face got warm and he turned and stumbled out into the hallway, hand against his mouth, staggering toward the bathroom and knowing that he wouldn’t make it in time…

  TWENTY-TWO

  SILVER SPRING, MARYLAND

  Saturday, November 15, 1:17 p.m.

  The rest of the investigators from the task force had been at the crime scene a while when Cronin and Erskine got there. They badged the uniforms standing outside, ducked under the yellow strand of tape, and went inside the high-rise office building. Another cop in the lobby directed them to the elevator bay and the twentieth floor. More crime-scene tape was strung across one of the elevators, so they took the freight car to the top. Its door opened onto a wide reception area of soft lighting and expensive wood-and-leather furniture.

  Cronin stepped outside and looked around. The walls were paneled in polished mahogany and large Impressionist paintings adorned them. The place was crawling with about a dozen CSI. Off to the left, behind a wall of glass, a large conference room was adorned festively with colorful crepe ribbons and balloons. About two dozen well-dressed people, men and women, huddled there in small groups, looking stricken. A couple of the women were crying and being consoled by others.

  Marty Abrams, the task force’s lead investigator, was talking to another detective near the reception desk and spotted them. He made a show of looking at his watch.

  “Nice of you to join us, ladies,” he called out.

  They went over. “Come on, Marty. It’s a long ride from Alexandria,” Cronin said. He glanced back at the other elevator, where three CSI and a photographer worked the scene. “What do we have this time?”

  Abrams said, “Even cuter than College Park last month. Or the one in Fairfax last week. We don’t have a positive on the stiff yet, but it looks like a Darone Antoine Wallace, gang-banger from the District, northeast. At least that’s what the newspaper clip on the body says. Looks like our vigilantes whacked him last night, brought him up
here this morning.”

  Erskine raised his eyebrows. “This morning? You mean in broad daylight?”

  “Yeah. Take a look. You’re gonna love this.”

  They walked to the elevator and asked the crime-scene investigators to take five. Everyone backed out, and they stepped up to the open door.

  Inside, secured with ropes onto a high-backed swivel chair, sat a dead African-American guy who appeared to be in his late twenties. He’d been shot between the eyes at close range. Tracks of dried blood ran from his ears and nose, and what they could see of the back of his head looked like a mass of dark jelly. The guy wore no shoes or socks, just jeans and a white t-shirt—or it had been white: Now it was covered with patches of blood, gone rusty brown. His right hand was clamped around a newspaper clipping and rested on his lap.

  “He’s sure not dressed for the weather,” Cronin added.

  “Nope,” Abrams said. “And notice his mouth.”

  They leaned forward. “Is that food?” Erskine asked.

  “Uh huh. That, plus how he’s dressed, makes me think they caught him right in the middle of supper last night. Probably at his place. I’m betting that when we find out where he lives, we’ll find the rest of his brains on the floor around his front door. You know: ‘Ding-dong, Avon calling.’ He opens up. Boom.”

  “So what’s the rest of this staging all about?”

  “See, this is a private elevator, key-card-operated.” Abrams pointed to the elevator buttons. A panel around the card reader had been unscrewed and removed, exposing a tangle of wires. “It only goes up to the law firm here—Ellis, Lehman, and Rogers.”

  “Those bastards,” Cronin said, looking over at the distraught faces in the conference room.

  “Yeah. Those bastards. So today they’re throwing this small luncheon for the partners, their biggest clients, and their wives. They tell us that this elevator has an ‘out of order’ sign on it when they get here this morning, around eleven. So everybody takes the freight elevator up here. The party starts about noon. Then, about twelve-twenty, they hear the elevator alarm go off. All of a sudden, this door opens up. The alarm is real loud, now, so some of them go to check it out, and this is what they find.”